Page 3 of Don't Puck Him

Five people, all holding grocery bags, pour into the large kitchen and stop mid-sentence when they notice me. I only recognize two of them. Cash and my mother.

Her blonde hair is immaculately coiffed as always. She drops her bags on the counter, and I hear stilettos click their way over to my side.

Her cursory side hug makes me stiffen. All eyes are on us as she speaks. “David, meet Wren.”

The distinguished silver fox in the group stares at me sharply.

“Wren, you can call me Mr. Anderson.”

He doesn’t come forward, doesn’t offer a smile. Just like his son.

“And Cash says you guys are getting on well. Isn’t he just lovely?” she continues, her voice syrupy sweet.

Cash waves at me and… smiles?

“Hey, sis,” he says, like it’s the most normal thing.

I seethe inside but wave back at him.

“And that is Mr. and Mrs. Greyford, good friends and neighbors.”

When did she make friends here?

Mrs. Greyford steps forward to shake my hand. “It’s a pity you just missed our summer European tour. We go together every year. I’m glad you and Cash will be on break when we go to Aspen for Winter.”

Europe? Aspen? What?

I search my mom’s ice blue eyes. “The Coast Guard training is intense. You know I can’t make it.”

“I forgot to tell you. David arranged everything. You’re joining Cash at Boston College.”

No fucking way! She knows I want to become a Marine Science Technician! How could she?

“Can’t wait to show you the ropes,” says Cash.

And I fear he means that literally.

2

HUNTER

I’m pressed as fuck. My barber is slower than usual today when all I want to do is go home and empty my damn bladder because I never use public bathrooms. I should find a new guy, but this kid knows his way around a clipper.

My head is bent down towards the book in my lap. It’s one I picked up by chance recently. I didn’t expect to find literature on ancient occultism this fascinating.

My favorite part of the haircut begins. He gently presses his knuckles against my chin. A universal prompt for me to raise my head, make the job easier for him.

I resist, eyes firmly on my book.

He does it again. Presses a little harder this time. Poor kid. Probably thinks I’m absent minded.

I resist. Again.

He clears his throat and sandwiches my head with his palms, one hand against each of my ears. He almost strains trying to raise my head. I keep my neck stiff and silently count to five.

Five, four, three, two and one.

Then I slowly lift my head and meet his eyes in the mirror.

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